


ash in the sun

by CallicoKitten



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Multi, Warden Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-08-29 05:21:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16737880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: Jasper Trevelyan has three beginnings. The first is false, the second is binding. The third, he hopes, is permanent. He gives his name as Ellis when the women ask. The mark on his hand pulses. Knows he is lying. But it is less a lie than it is a kindness.-Written in line with the #Dragon4geday writing prompts





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> this was going to be a proper full length fic once and it might be one day but for now here it is in drips and drabs.

In Haven, they say he walked out of the Fade. The only survivor of the Conclave, the best hope for peace, for an end to a war that could tear Thedas apart.

The smell of the Fade is still thick on his burrowed clothes. He assumes his uniform was destroyed, there would be more questions otherwise, more suspicion. Not that there isn’t plenty. Jasper understands. If he were in the Seeker’s position, he would think the same.

His hand pulses, glows a sickly Fade green.

When he was very young, he could conjure fire between his palms. Small balls of flame in all manner of colours, light and bright and warm. His brother was horrified and delighted in equal measure, held out his hand to touch. _It’s alright,_ he said. _I know you won’t hurt me._

They had known what it meant even then. The fire beneath his skin. Ellis had told him to hide it so he had. From their father. From the Templars. From the Wardens.

The Seeker demands to know what happened. Jasper remembers little. From the Fade, from before. It is only then that he realises his mind is empty. Blissfully, mercifully _empty._ For as long as he can recall there has only been that voice at the back of his mind. His voice. Whispering. Directing. Clawing its way up his spine, through his ribs, squeezing tight so he could not even breathe unless it moved with him.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I don’t remember.”

The Seeker does not believe him.

They tell him the conclave is destroyed. The Divine is dead.

The words are heavy, cut into him as a dull blade would. Something in his chest twists. When he tells them he had nothing to do with it, the words taste like ash in his mouth, catch in the back of his throat.

He still cannot recall what happened but there is something he suddenly knows with certainty: the Seeker is right. He did this. _They_ did this. The Wardens. But he has no time to process, the Seeker yanks him up, drags him out into the ice and snow and points upwards at the scarred sky.

Somewhere, distantly, in the back of his mind he hears his father’s voice reading some canticle or another. He had taken such comfort in it as a child. In Ellis’ last letter he had written to say he was thinking of becoming a Brother. The Chantry had enough warriors to fight their battles and Jasper was out there doing his bit for the Trevelyan family. Didn’t matter to him that Jasper was only with the Wardens for almost destroying it. The family, that is.

Jasper hadn’t written back.

The Seeker tells him he is their last great hope. The Seeker tells him he is dying.

As they trudge through the snow, the dwarf asks his name. Smiles. Says it’ll make it easier to warn him the next time he lets his guard down and a demons bearing down on him. Or at least they’ll know what to put on the urn.

His mother named him Mathalin, first of the Emerald Knights. When he was presented to Bann Trevelyan, he changed it. Reminded his mother he would have an easier life as a human, as a Trevelyan. That he took an interest was enough, that he was willing to raise him as his son was almost unheard of. A bastard. Son of an elven kitchen-maid. Lady Trevelyan never forgave him. For good reason.

The Seeker told him he is dying. The mark is spreading, with each pulse he feels his entire being is coming apart. He will close the Breach before his end, he must. He will undo this.

He thinks of the news being brought to his father. To his Lady wife. His father will weep, perhaps. Lady Trevelyan will only ask after Ellis. Her son. Her baby. Her last remaining child. Jasper does not know if it is intuition or some memory buried deep but he is certain Ellis would have attended the Conclave and if Ellis was there, he is dead.

It sounds wrong. _Feels_ wrong.

He doesn’t deserve this. He isn’t a hero. His whole life is proof of that.

He tells the dwarf his name is Ellis.

It makes for a better story.


	2. Autumn

At the crossroads, Mother Giselle throws him a life line and he and Varric and Solas and Cassandra spend the next few weeks running back and forth across the Hinterlands, righting wrongs, gathering support.

The conclave took place in late Summer. After the Breach, Jasper slept a week. The leaves are beginning to turn, green bleeding out into reds and golds. As a child, he hated the changes autumn heralded. The cold weather, the snow, the unending nights. It meant hours spent indoors under the watchful gaze of Lady Trevelyan, the ire of her daughter –

He closes his eyes. He must not think of Esme. Not now. Not ever.

They are back at the Crossroads. Cassandra is talking with Corporal Vale and Scout Harding, coordinating troop movements, supply lines. She does not trust Jasper enough yet to involve him and Jasper is content to wait, watch a group of refugee children play in piles of leaves, with wooden swords and shields.

Their wounds are dressed, their clothes are warm, their bellies are full. Here, Jasper feels he has done more good than in his ten years with the Wardens.

“Hey, Ellis!”

He still flinches every time he hears his brother’s name but he has not had the heart to correct them. Or the gall. The Seeker still eyes him like she would prefer him to still be in chains. If he comes clean now, she will probably execute him herself.

Varric settles himself down beside him, taps him on the arm with a flagon until Jasper takes it.

“What is this?”

“The man who sold it to me said it was cider but honestly, it could be anything. It’s good, though. Well, not terrible. Warming. Hasn’t made me go blind or anything yet.”

Jasper makes a face. “That’s comforting.” He takes a sip. It goes down easier than the Joining but then, most everything does. “I suppose there might be a _hint_ of apple.”

Varric grins. “See? I told you! Not terrible.”

Jasper hums noncommittally. On the ridge, Cassandra’s back is turned to him. Solas is nowhere to be seen. Both of them watch him closely. Endlessly. Cassandra with suspicion. Solas, curiosity. It is a blessing to be away from their scrutiny for even a moment.

“So, you’re a Marcher, right? Ostwick, I heard the Seeker say?”

Jasper nods. It seems odd now to think of it, to think of himself as a Marcher. He was not yet sixteen when he fled. Spent most of his life afterwards in Orlais, Neverra, the Anderfels. “Though I haven’t been back in some time,” he says.

Varric hums. “This is the longest I’ve been away. You miss it?”

The home he misses is no longer there. Has not been there for some time. Lady Montilyet has written to Ostwick, Bann Trevelyan has written back. They are both overwhelmed at their son’s survival, at his luck. They have pledged their unending support to the Inquisition.


	3. what lies in shadow

In the Fallowmire, with the dead pressing close and the sheeting rain, Jasper cannot shake thoughts of his own past. The Wardens. The men and women felled by his blade. His sister. Half-sister.

The dead remind him in shades of the darkspawn. Their grey flesh, their gaping mouths, their shambling gaits. They are somehow worse though, once-men, once-women. Sons, daughters. Mothers, fathers. They avoid disturbing the water but still, the corpses come.

If it were up to him, they would not be here.

The Wardens do not counsel foolishness. A diversion through a plague-infested bog to rescue a handful of men is not something his Commander would consent to but Ellis would. Ellis would. So he has led them here. A small party. Himself, Bull, Sera, Solas.

Atop a hill, Solas lights a beacon that summons a demon; Terror, clawing it’s way out of the Fade with a horrific howl. It is easily dispatched between his blades and Sera’s arrows and Solas’ ice and Bull’s maul but not before it bursts out on top of him.

In its claws he sees the thing that pulled his strings for so many years. He hears it’s voice – it’s terrible voice – telling him kneel, to bow, to go, to halt, _raise your blade, half-elf, do not think I do not know of what you are, who you are._

He pushes it away.

Terror sends him Esme instead. Tall, though she was always tall, taller than him, her fingers ghoulishly long. He shrinks away from the blade in her hands, her sing-song voice.

The demon is knocked back by Bull.

“Alright, boss?” he asks, but doesn’t stop to check.

When the fighting is done, he notices the beacon has gone out. Reaches up to relit it, ears still ringing with the sound Esme’s neck made when he broke it. He realises his mistake too late, the veilfire springs to life beneath his outstretched fingers. He draws his hand back quickly, not quickly enough.

Solas says nothing, looks out across the mire instead. “We would do well to make camp soon, Inquisitor,” he says. “The Avaar we met said our soldiers were alive, last he saw them. I understand you are concerned but we will be of to use to them dead on our feet and soaked to the bone.” He turns back, holds Jasper’s gaze.

“Don’t think we’re going to be able to do anything about the soaked bit, but I wouldn’t say no to a hot meal,” Bull says, hefting his maul up.

“Or a nap,” Sera adds.

They find a small sheltered spot. Solas sits beside him while they wait for the scouts with their supplies. Jasper sharpens his daggers while Solas talks about the runes they have found dotted about the Mire. He asks whether Jasper can read them, whether the mark on his hand, the Fade pressing through his skin grants him that ability. Jasper plays dumb. Pretends he cannot hear the translations whispered to him across the Fade just as he pretends Solas cannot hear his lies.

When he was young the Templars came for the stable-boy. In his fear, the boy set the hay ablaze, the flames eating quickly into the wood, spreading across beams, across the ceiling, across the floors.

He glances askance at Solas as he speaks. Wonders, not for the first time, whether Solas ever felt that fear. He thinks perhaps not. Solas does not wield his magic like he has ever been taught to fear it, to fear what it may bring.

He sleeps little. Dreams of Weissupt, of Ostwick. Of Esme on that last day. The roof tiles slick beneath his grasping fingers as he clambered up them, the warmth of the flame he conjured in his outstretched fingers, Ellis’ hand clasped over his, his voice insistent.

_Run! Run! You have to run!_

His legs obeying before he could process.


	4. all souls day

It is late afternoon by the time he is free enough to traipse across the small garden to the little chapel. It has only been a handful of weeks since their arrival at Skyhold, there is still much to do. Walls to rebuild, roofs to repair, whole wings still inaccessible.

The candles at Andraste’s feet are already lit, only a few have flickered out. He kneels to relit them, to transfer the flames from one candle to the others, murmurs the Chant as he does so. Once down he passes his palm over the lit flames, knows they will not burn him, bows his head. He prays that his brother has found his way to the Maker’s side swiftly, that all those who died at the Conclave have found peace.

He prays that when his father and Lady Trevelyan discover the truth it does not destroy them. He begs Andraste to protect them, to find some way to soften the blow.

This last part he knows is moot. He has taken both of their children now. Their pretty daughter, their gallant son. It will not be long now. Varric has brought the Champion. She says she has a contact in the Wardens who may be able to shed some light on their adversary. They are to depart for Crestwood within a few days, Hawke has already gone ahead to find Loghain. The man who recruited him.

There is no chance he will not be recognised.

There is no chance he will be permitted to keep his brother’s name.

Everything he has tried to do here, the amends he has tried to make, they will crash down around him like the ruins of Haven.

He jerks at the sudden footsteps behind him. Hand going automatically to the hilt of his dagger.

“Oh.”

The voice behind him is soft. When he turns, Commander Cullen bows his head. Jasper had seen him as he crossed the garden, playing chess with Dorian. Dorian who has not quite met his eyes since Haven, since Jasper allowed him to press him into the side of his little shack, to lick into his mouth. Since Jasper pushed him away.

 “Inquisitor, I apologise. I did not mean to interrupt.”

Jasper rises. “It’s fine, Commander. You’re fine.”

Cullen’s smile is small, still shy somehow despite his bulk, despite the months they have been in one another’s company. “Josephine has ordered a feast to be prepared. We can toast tonight to those we lost at Haven, at the Conclave.”

Jasper swallows. “I will be there,” he promises.

Cullen nods. He looks tired still. Insists on working all hours, long hours, despite Jasper ordering him to rest. At least it seems he is taking today off. “It always seemed odd to me,” he says quietly. “A feast in the name of those who have already passed.”

Jasper nods. Ellis said the same once, twice. Said the food left for spirits would go to waste while so many starved. The Revered Mother had winked at them, showed them later how the food was given to those who needed it once the feasting was done.

“We need not leave food to waste,” Jasper says. “If we even _have_ food to waste.”

“You’d be surprised,” Cullen says. “You’ve gathered more support than we could ever hope for in the past few weeks alone. Our coffers will be overflowing soon. We shall have to dedicate an entire wing to our gold.”

His gaze is so full of hope, of belief. Jasper can hardly stand it. He drops his gaze, rolls his shoulders.

“We’ll put it to good use,” he says, gruffly.

“Of that, I have no doubt.”


	5. thunderous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i switched these two prompts round because it better suited the story

He hardly dares speak on the journey to Crestwood, trails behind the others as they ride across sodden hillsides. He thinks over and over on how he may escape this fate. Runs scenarios. A well placed messenger summoning him away. Varric could go ahead with Hawke to meet with the Warden. He need not meet with the man, not now, not ever.

He need not stare his past in the face. Stare the man who yanked him out of his self-pity in Val Royeux and stuffed him into a uniform. Trained him in all he knew. There is no chance he will not be recognised. There is no chance Loghain will look at him and not know immediately what happened.

He will be clapped in irons. Dragged back to Skyhold and put on trial as a pretender. As the man who murdered the Divine. Who murdered thousands.

He recalls more now. Things have come in brief flashes since the destruction of Haven. He recalls the prison in the Vimark Mountains. The man who summoned them there. Corypheaus’ voice burrowing in, burning all else out. Ellis at the temple. His eyes wide and confused. He has not managed to draw them together yet, to weave the strands into something that makes sense. He will, he is certain and when he does, he will not like what he finds.

From the direction of the village there is a great rumbling. Of thunder, of the Breach, of the storm which will soon break over him, over them all. He grips the reigns of his horse tightly. Hopes they are strong enough to weather this.

-

In the cave there was a moment when he thought the storm would break, had broken. On his knees, Loghain’s sword pressed to his throat, the voices of his companions loud, overlaying – Sera’s disbelieving, laughing, furious, Blackwall’s tight, Varric and Dorian quiet, terse.

They had such belief in him. In their cause.

They do him a kindness and do not shackle him until they have left Crestwood behind. Their rift is sealed, their village safe. They will not remember him, the half-elf kitchen whelp, the Warden, slave to Corypheaus. They will remember Ellis Trevelyan. Herald of Andraste. Faithful Inquisitor of the people.

They are camping along the shores of Lake Calenhad. Blackwall has helped him off his horse, set him by the fire. He avoids Jasper’s gaze. They all do. None of them willing to confront this. To confront him. All of them holding their breath as the eye of the storm passes over them.

They leave him with Loghain most often. Loghain who looks at him sadly. Who shakes his head. Who sighs. Who has asked again and again what happened, why. Where he has been. What happened to the others sent with him. Jasper can give him no answers so they sit together in stony silence.

Tonight, it is not Loghain that settles beside him but Dorian and Jasper tenses ever so slightly.

He is quiet for long moments before he sighs, scoffs. “Maker. This is getting us nowhere.”

He can feel Dorian’s hard gaze upon him, thinks again of Haven, before the bells began to toll. Before the village burnt. Dorian’s hand cupping his jaw. He winces.

“You won’t even look at me, will you?” There is hurt in his voice. He layers it with anger and incredulity but it cannot be masked. “Figures. You know, I hear most Wardens were criminals before joining the Order. Your man Loghain won’t tell us anything so I thought I’d ask _you._ Come on. You owe us that at least. Or shall I guess?”

The annoyance in his tone grows.

Jasper swallows before he answers. “Murder.”

By the way Dorian stutters slightly, it is obvious that is not the answer he had expected. “Right. Well.”

He steals a glance at the mage, his face half-lit by the flames, half in shadow. Loghain is across the camp taking with Hawke. She is quieter than Varric wrote her. More restrained. Considerate. Her fingers rough and calloused from her bow. Her smile is not unkind. She does not flinch when he looks at her. She is more intrigued, he thinks. Wondering what could possess someone to do something so heinous and then work to repair it.

“Did you do it?” Dorian asks. “Do I want to know?”

Jasper sighs and looks back to the shackles about his wrists. “I’m sure Sister Nightingale will have a report prepared by now. It will all be read aloud at my trial.”

“I don’t want to read a report. I want to hear it from you.”

Across the camp Loghain glances back at him. In the small quirk of his mouth he asks whether Jasper wishes a rescue. Jasper turns his head away. “It was an accident.” The lie is heavy, bitter. One more to add to the long chain that already drags behind him.

He had wanted her dead in that moment. He had wanted her dead. Anything to make her stop.

“An accident,” Dorian repeats. His mouth works oddly. “I – May I ask who?”

“My sister,” he answers. Blinks. “Half-sister.”

He looks again at Dorian when the silence stretches too long, looks to assess how the blow has fallen. Dorian does not look surprised. Too late Jasper recalls that Dorian has studied the Trevelyan family tree, knows it well enough to have discovered some distant shared blood. He would know by now about Esme. About her death at the hands of Bann Trevelyan’s desperate bastard son.

The tales they spin of him are desperately unkind. They say he meant to force himself upon her, put a bastard in her belly to secure their father’s fortune or at the very least, keep her from it. They say he meant to sacrifice her in some dark elven ritual. They say he killed her just to hurt.

“Jasper,” Dorian says, something odd in his voice. “That – That’s your name, isn’t it?”

It sounds odd to hear it from him. Odd to hear it from anyone but himself, but Loghain.

“Yes.”

And Dorian nods, reaches out to touch him lightly on the wrist just above his cuffs. “You were young,” is all he says.

Jasper shudders.


	6. masquerade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy dragon4ge day!

His hands shake as he folds the parchment back away. The runner who handed it to him smiled as she did so, said she was sorry for having read it, sir, only it was open and it bears such good news.

Bann Trevelyan will be attending the Winter Ball. An invitation lovingly extended by Empress Celene to the father of their saviour, Andraste’s herald, the Lord Inquisitor so they may be reunited at long last. He has read the message several times over, searching for some hint of malevolence, some hint that they know and if the Empress knows the Court knows. If the Court knows Orlais knows.

Officially, he is still Ellis Trevelyan. No one at Skyhold outside of his inner circle, his advisors knows his true name. The true reason he was at the Conclave.

The decision was made long before their return to Skyhold. In the broadest sense it is as though nothing has changed, though of course, everything is different.

-

“Empress Celene has no idea of your true identity,” Leliana promises. A smirk plays across her face. She was quick to let him know that she was aware within a matter of weeks that he was Jasper not Ellis. Said she only let him carry on because she wanted to know how far he would take it, because she thought Ellis Trevelyan a much more fitting hero than Jasper. “If she did, we would have had more of a hint before now.”

Josephine has brought a tailor from Val Royeux to fit him for a suit, a mask. They have chosen red. It makes him look washed out, pale.

“It doesn’t matter whether she knows. My – Bann Trevelyan will know the second he lays eyes on me, mask or no.”

Josephine is behind him, frets with her ever present noteboard. “Perhaps he is right, Leliana. This is a such a huge risk and – ”

“Come now, Josie,” Leliana scolds. “You know there is no other option. Trevelyan must attend the Ball or we risk allowing Orlais to fall to chaos.” She steps forwards, hands him the mask they have picked out for him.

It is fairly simple. Deep blue inlaid with silver patterns. The colours of the Wardens.

He looks up at Leliana before he puts it on. She smiles coolly. “I thought it matched your eyes, Inquisitor.”

-

It is a small party he takes to the Ball with him, those few who have begun speaking to him again. Dorian and Varric and Bull. Solas and Cassandra left at Skyhold just in case. Cassandra has not said two words to him since he first returned. Sera cannot be within the same room as him. Vivienne has never liked him and Blackwall has vanished.

Cole has always known. For that reason, Jasper has not been in the habit of bringing Cole with him.

He had asked Loghain, half-desperate, up on the battlements. He has stuck close to him since Crestwood, clinging to him like some hapless pup. Loghain had laughed. Told him he certainly wouldn’t be welcome at an Orlesian ball, of all things, even if he did not object on principle. He promised he would not leave before Jasper returned though, if nothing else he could offer that.

“You should eat something,” Dorian says wryly as they stand before the Winter Palace. “Or perhaps not. You’re looking almost as green as the mark on your hand.”

He smirks as he passes Jasper by, almost a sneer. His mask is far more elaborate. Black and gold and beautifully carved. Varric pats him on the arm comfortingly, “Cheer up, Firefly. I’m reasonably sure there’s no way this can go as badly as the Conclave.”

-

He bows his head low to the Empress, knows well enough how to speak the language of the court. There are few here who would recognise him yet but still, he keeps to the sidelines, to the shadows and side rooms, hunts out fodder for Leliana, follows the blood spatter out to the gardens and up a trellis to the library. Dorian watches him as he climbs, shakes his head when he reaches the top.

Jasper lingers in the library until Varric comes to find him, says, “Look, if you’re playing a part, you’ve got to give it your all.”

So, he goes back down to the ball. Dances with the duchess, with a few others besides. Chases venatori through the kitchens and empty wings. He himself would let Celene die and Gaspard take power. Celene is weak, distractible. Gaspard may have designs on Ferelden but he will at least ensure Orlais makes it through this unscathed, intact. But Ellis would save the Empress, would hunt for a means to make peace, so that is what they do.

It is on his return to the ballroom to stop Florianne that Josephine grasps him by the sleeve and says, in a low, urgent voice, “Your father has arrived, Lord Trevelyan. I will stall as far as possible but it would be wise to greet him before the night is over.”

Jasper swallows. Tells her he will see to it later. To him.

Before she lets him go, she says, “Inquisitor, you must stop running from this.”

-

He meets Bann Trevelyan once the speeches are over and the feasting is done, out on a balcony overlooking the palace gardens.

When they were younger, he and Ellis looked quite indistinguishable. Both lanky, dark haired, wide-eyed. Jasper’s hair had darkened though, the taint had sapped his colour. When last he saw Ellis at the Conclave he was struck by how different he looked, yet how he had remained the same. He was taller, bulkier. His skin darkened from time spent in the sun. His eyes still wide, still green.

Footsteps behind him herald the Bann’s arrival. They are hesitant, slow.

When he turns, the Bann’s shoulders slump slightly but he does not cry out in rage, in fury. He does not summon the palace guards, demand Jasper’s arrest. He looks defeated, tired. His eyes are blue like Jasper’s but they crinkle at the corners like Ellis’, like Esme’s.

Jasper opens his mouth to greet him but cannot force the words out. There are so many things he wishes to say that they pile against one another, so many things he wishes to do that they hold him still as frost magic.

Bann Trevelyan takes a step towards him. Out of instinct, Jasper steps back.

The Bann raises his hands. “It’s alright,” he says, taking another step and then another. “It’s alright,” he repeats. Then he is before Jasper, tilts his head, clucks his tongue. His eyes are damp. “Oh, Jasper,” he says, puts his hands out to clasp Jasper by both shoulders and hold him still, steady. “What happened, lad? What happened?”

Jasper can still say nothing. Can say nothing until his father folds him into a tight hug. He smells so strongly of Ostwick, of pine needles, of the persistent damp in the manor floors, the old parchment of his books, the hay in the stables and the light floral scent of Lady Trevelyan’s perfume – Jasper feels his knees give way, falls against him.

“It’s alright,” his father keeps saying, strokes his hair as though he is a small child again, awoken from a nightmare. “It’s alright, Jasper. It’s alright.”

He is so _good._ Such a good father. So doting, so attentive, so unconditional in his love for his children and Jasper has taken everything from him. _Everything._

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry._ ”

“It’s alright,” his father says. “It’s alright.”

-

Later, much later, Dorian comes out onto the balcony. Jasper is tired, wrung out, exhausted, has stayed put more because he does not trust himself to move quite yet than out of a desire to avoid anyone.

“I hear Bann Trevelyan will be accompanying us to Skyhold,” he says, tone light. He sets his hand on the railing beside Jasper’s. Jasper feels the warmth.

“Yes,” Jasper says. His throat feels a little raw but he smiles.

“It went well, then,” Dorian says. There is surprise in his voice, perhaps disappointment. Jasper is too tired to feel the sting, only hums, yawns.

Dorian snorts softly. Slides his hand over Jasper’s and up to clasp his wrist gently. “And here I was hoping I’d get a dance out of you before the night was through.” His tone is light once more, he pulls Jasper to him. “Come on, Inquisitor, lets get you to bed.”


	7. The Blight

Jasper was never all that enamoured with the Wardens when he was a child, no matter the elven heroes Ellis dredged up for him. Garahel who slew Andoral, countless others who stood against Darkspawn, who made their final stand in glory. He would play at being a Warden because Ellis was insistent, Esme as their archdemon whether she wished it or not.

“What happened to your sister?” Dorian asks, on the way back from the Winter Palace. Tosses it carelessly as he tosses flames in battle, an edge of bitterness to his voice. They have fallen out again, though perhaps they were never friends in the first place. “They tell the most _frightful_ stories of you, you know.”

Bann Trevelyan rides ahead of them. If he is disappointed, he left Ostwick expecting to meet one son and finding another, he has not yet shown it. He has not asked about Ellis, about Haven. He has only said how happy he is Jasper is safe, is well. How he never doubted for a moment Jasper would be a great man.

He has been quiet since Jasper told him he joined Wardens.

“Perhaps I should ask your father,” Dorian says.

Jasper is content to let him stew but Varric comes to his defence.

“Give it a rest, Sparkler. We get it. You’re pissed the Inquisitor doesn’t want to sleep with you.”

Dorian scowls at him and drops back.

Varric cuts Jasper a glance. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

-

He took the Joining on his knees. It was not required, but it felt right. Appropriate. He heard Wardens talking before, laughing behind their hands. They did not think he would make it, he such a scrawny thing.

Two years out of Ostwick. Still on the run from Lady Trevelyan’s grief. Loghain had saved his life when a bounty was placed on his head, when Val Royeux was plastered with his likeness. When he had first suggested the Wardens, Jasper had laughed but then he was told it meant freedom, protection. As a Warden, she could not touch him.

“It means much more than that,” Loghain had told him. “It is not a decision to be taken lightly.”

The Taint in his blood, the call of the archdemon. Those things meant nothing to him then.

When he woke though, when he woke with something dark and cold and _wrong_ crawling through his veins, the distant rumble in the back of his mind, he thought he understood.

-

Eleanor Hawke rides to meet them in the Approach. Her dark eyes are narrowed, her expression grim. “What is happening in the Fortress is not good,” her gaze flicks between them. “We must hurry.”

“Cullen is bringing our forces,” Jasper tells her. “We’ll be ready to move by evening.”

As they wait, she watches him closely. Darkness is falling over the sands. The shadows grow longer, the burnt orange cools to blue hue. “You do not hear it, do you?” she asks, quite suddenly.

He stares at her. “Hear what?”

“The False Calling. You seemed surprised in Crestwood, so you must not hear it anymore.” She tilts her head at him. “Why would Corypheus have sway over all the Wardens but you?”

The mark on Jasper’s hand pulses. He curls his fingers in towards it. Hawke does not miss the gesture.

“Ah.” She seems disappointed somehow. “It was the Mark that cleansed your blood.”

Too late he recalls her sister, a Warden somewhere out there. Her lover, the mage who destroyed Kirkwall.

It had taken him months to know for sure the taint was gone. Many he supposes would see it as a blessing, another gift from Andraste but to Jasper it felt more akin to a curse.

“I’m sorry,” he says because he can think of nothing else to offer.

She shakes her head at him. “Do not apologise, Herald. It is not as though you asked for any of this.”

Loghain calls to them from across the camp, tells them it is time.

Hawke smiles briefly at him, claps him on the arm. Tells him she’ll see him out there. To be safe.

-

He tumbles into the Fade with the blood of men and women he has known for years spattered across his chest. Men and women who died for his mistake. The screams of Wardens ring in his ears, the image of Clarel, eyes wide as she appraises him plays over and over again. “You are supposed to be dead,” she told him. “We – There were _bodies._ ”

He shakes away the memory. They must press on. In the chaos, he had lost track of who ran with him through the fortress. Now he sees he has been left with only Hawke, Loghain, Cole, Bull and Dorian.

Somewhere, something within the Fade stirs, rumbles out threats, taunts them.

“You thought you could run from this, Jasper,” it says as they fight off demons. “From your past. From yourself. From every great wrong you have done.”

A child skitters past them, a memory. Long-limbed, eyes wide, face damp with tears. It breaks Jasper’s concentration and Despair almost freezes him solid.

The Nightmare laughs at him. “So ashamed even now. You should be thanking me. You cannot even handle a single unwarranted death at your own hands. However will you cope when you learn the truth?”

From years ago, he hears Esme’s scream, first of rage, then of terror as she fell, as Jasper’s flames overwhelmed her. The he hears the crunch of her body hitting the ground below. The rain against the cobbles. Smells it in the air.

“Even now you cower. So afraid of who you are, of _what_ you truly are. The bastard. The murderer. The half-elf.”

The ice crackles against his skin. He feels flames rise up within him.

“The mage. _Apostate_.”

Dorian gets there first. Throws his own fire to melt the ice away, to send Despair sizzling out of existence.

They have all heard the Nightmare’s accusations. They must have, Jasper heard all it said to them well enough. But none of them say anything of it to him. Perhaps they think them baseless. More likely they would not be surprised if he had kept something else from them. He has already lied about everything else, after all.

-

They follow the spirit of the Divine, Jasper regains his memories. The Nightmare allows him to keep Esme a secret but this, _this_ he broadcasts aloud.

Coryphaeus pulling his strings, directing he and the other Wardens as puppets. The Magister tells them to bind the Divine and they do. The Magister tells him to watch he door and he does. Divine Justinia is frightened, confused. She does not understand why they are doing this to her. They of all people.

 _Watch the door_ , Coryphaeus says.

Jasper flinches as he watches it unfold. Watches as Ellis thumps on the door, breaks through. Demands to know what’s going on, what they are doing Then he says Jasper’s name and something snaps. A rope, a chain. He looks at Ellis and _sees._

“Maker,” Hawke says, when it’s over. Her voice is faint, trembling. She cannot look him in the eye. Cole tells her it’s alright, that Jasper and this are different.

Jasper falls to his knees and heaves until his stomach is empty.

He knew. He knew, he knew, he _knew_ he had a hand in it. Knocked the arrow, drew the bow. He _knew_ but to see it laid out before him is something else entirely.

Loghain hefts him up the arm, sets him back on his feet. “Come on, now, Warden Jasper. There’s no time for that now.”

-

Loghain pushes him through the Rift, Hawke follows a moment after. Her eyes are damp, her mouth a thin line. She looks at him with such hatred, such _disgust_.

Dorian bends down, kneels beside him to wipe the blood from where his lip has split. “The Wardens await your orders, Inquisitor.” His voice is tight. No tighter than it has been before. He helps Jasper up, steps away.

Cassandra is across the courtyard, Cullen at her side. They expect him to condemn the Wardens. To damn them for their demon worship, for all the bad they have done in the name of good but how can he when he out of all of them has done the most harm? Has tainted this world irreparably? Has brought it to its knees.

His voice quakes as he speaks.


	8. Feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to go up before christmas and honestly, i thought it had so um. my bad. here it is now. better late than never!

Ellis’ birthday falls on Satinalia, something Lady Trevelyan was always quick to mention in her boasts. It was considered good luck, a sign that the child would bring great joy throughout their life.

If he had lived, he would have been thirty.

Josephine calls for a feast; a joint celebration of the holiday, the Inquisitor’s birthday and their victory at Adamant because despite the Wardens they lost, despite the hollow pit in Jasper’s stomach, they tell him it _was_ a victory. The remaining Wardens are at their side after all, Coryphaeus has lost his allies, his army.

“I know this has been trying for you,” Josephine says to him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “But you must try to make a show of levity if only for the sake of our followers.”

He promises he will.

As is traditional, he and Josephine have arranged gifts for his inner circle; a dragon-bone sword for Bull, trinkets for Sera and Cole, cards for Varric, a new chess set for Cullen, books for Cassandra, Solas and Dorian. He’s trying to make amends as best he can.

Today will be about that, about atoning. He will give a speech penned by Josephine and Leliana, they will crown Sera Inquisitor for the day, she will complain about taking the role of the fool but will enjoy it despite it all. Jasper will smile and eat and talk pleasantly to the visiting nobles, to their allies, to their supporters. He will be gifted things. He will be grateful.

His father and Lady Trevelyan have written. Two letters, one long and gushing, signed by both of them, the other short, signed only by his father.

 _Be strong,_ it says. _You are doing what is right._

-

The feast Josephine has arranged is far beyond anything he has seen before. More splendid than anything at Ostwick, less ostentatious than Celene’s Ball at the Winter Palace. He says his piece, hands Sera his sword and takes his seat at the table surrounded by his inner-circle. They converse mostly among themselves but involve him at times and in between courses he mingles with their guests, takes his cues from Josephine who makes small gestures here and there. And of course, he drinks.

He drinks probably more than is strictly wise, laughs too loudly when a noble bemoans Sera being chosen as their fool and says quite audibly that he agrees. That he should still be Inquisitor. After all, he is the biggest fool in the hall. Perhaps in the land.

The noble laughs with him but there is an edge of nervousness to her voice and she makes a hasty retreat.

Somewhere, someone calls for a toast to the Wardens. Defenders of the Land. Last bastion of hope in the face of the Blights. Saved from doom by the Inquisition. By the Inquisitor. Sera is drunk too, jumps up on to the table to raise her flagon to that.

Dorian materialises at his elbow, guides him back to his seat. Says he’s had enough wine for one night but his gaze soon strays.

 _The Wardens_ , Jasper echoes wordlessly. _The Blight. Corruption. Desperation. Kinslaying._

Loghain would be ashamed. _Was_ ashamed. Died for their sins. For _all_ of their sins. Would still be here if Jasper had just – had _just –_

Ellis would still be here. The Divine. All who attended the Conclave.

When he closes his eyes, it replays against the black.

His own hands raised, magic flowing freely from them, holding her tight as she begged. It bleeds into Esme then, eyes wide as flames burst from his palms, threw her backwards off that roof to her death.

He pushes back his chair. The wooden legs screech against the stone. Mumbles sorry as he leaves. Halfway up the stairs he hears someone laugh and apologies on his behalf, makes an excuse about too much wine.

-

He does not know if Dorian is sent after him or follows willingly but the next thing he is truly aware of is the sound of his chamber doors slamming shut.

“I’m sorry,” he says, automatically, finds himself on his knees in the centre of the room as if praying.

“Yes, yes,” Dorian says. “So, I heard. So, we all heard. You’re sorry, Jasper. You’re sorry. So sorry.” He crosses the room, hefts Jasper up by the arm and helps to steady him. “See, you’re always apologising for things, Jasper. Saying you want to make things better but all you seem to do is mope about and cry about all the things you _should_ have done. Or rather, should _not_ have done.”

“ _Dorian_ ,” Jasper says and he wants it to mean a lot of things but all of them are muddled, none of them will present themselves clearly. He tries to push Dorian away but Dorian grasps his hands, holds them tight.

“ _Jasper_ ,” he mimics. “I know some people make the whole _tortured soul_ thing look good but you, my dear, do not. Look, you’ve got snot all over you and your eyes are all red.”

He draws a handkerchief from nowhere. Expensive, silken. He dabs at Jasper’s cheeks with uncharacteristic gentleness, scrubs at his nose without.

“You’re the leader of one of the most powerful organisations in Thedas. You might want to start acting like it at some point. Yes, you’re not your brother and that’s very sad but you’re _you_ and I, for one, am quite glad about that.”

His hand is warm against Jasper’s shoulder. His fingers just brush the bare skin of Jasper’s throat. Up close, he smells like musk and spices.

“Can’t you pretend just for today?” he asks. “Or _stop_ pretending?”

His hand has crept up to cradle Jasper’s jaw.

Jasper raises a hand to curl around Dorian’s wrist. Holds it tight.


End file.
